


i never did that to you / i'd never do that to you

by aelins



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Blow Jobs, Everyone Is Alive, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, FSB, Gun Violence, Past Rape/Non-con, Secret Intelligence Service | MI6, Spies & Secret Agents, discussions/mentions of suicide but dorian is fine i promise, dorian has an abuse history, dorian is in a really dark place, this runs in the same vein as rome is burning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:42:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28140339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aelins/pseuds/aelins
Summary: A concept: How much did you really know anyone when lying was your greatest worth?He has loved her since they met at the Russian Embassy three years ago. Three years ago he turned her into a secret agent for the British Government. Six months ago they broke up. But will what is dead stay dead? True love does not die.a rowaelin/manorian secret agent au
Relationships: Aelin Ashryver Galathynius | Celaena Sardothien/Rowan Whitethorn, Manon Blackbeak/Dorian Havilliard, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 27





	1. all you ever do is lie to me

**Author's Note:**

> hi, this is the beginning of a long-ish au. maybe 10 chapters. i hope you all enjoy and I'm really passionate about this !

Snow was falling in Moscow, as it does in that part of the world. It was just after Christmas. A fire crackled merrily in the grate. It would have been--should have been--Boxing Day with Rowan. She wasn’t thinking too much about Rowan’s entanglement or lack thereof, with a foreign government. Aelin wasn’t even concerned that she was a traitor to her people, the people she would die defending, even if it meant she would die with the stain of a burned file on her record. 

She’s just enjoying the blessed silence, the kind that she can’t really get when she’s in the office or out running favors for enemy governments. 

Tomorrow she’ll be back to all of it but right now she just wants to hold onto whatever semblance of peace she can. She flicks the TV on, and through some miracle manages to watch re-runs of her favorite Russian drama. 

Her phone rings not five minutes into the program. 

“Good evening, Galathynius speaking,” Aelin says in lilting Russian. 

Rowan’s rumbling British accent answers her, “Happy Christmas.” 

Aelin frowns because she doesn’t feel like playing house with Rowan Whitethorn, her ex. 

“Happy Christmas,” Aelin says switching over to English, though her Russian still makes her consonants stilted. 

“You didn’t check in with Fenrys, I was concerned--” Rowan begins. 

“I’m under a huge amount of pressure from the President.” Aelin rolls her eyes and bookmarks her place in her book, and then she begins pacing. Talking to Rowan always makes her wear holes in the carpet. 

Rowan replies, “I’m worried, and you know you’d have a secure position in London.” 

Aelin hisses, “I don’t want to leave my mission. You know this is my life’s work, Rowan. I don’t want to hear it.” 

“ _ Come home Aelin _ .” 

“No.” Aelin deadpans. “What would I be coming  _ home _ ,” she says the word with venom, “to?” 

She can hear the smile in the Assistant Director of MI-6’s voice, “Me.” 

“Rowan,” she gives a long-suffering sigh, “have a good Christmas, ok?” 

She’s about to hang up, but-- “Wait,” Rowan calls for her. 

She puts the phone back up to her ear, “Yes, Assistant Director Whitethorn?” Aelin says in clipped tones. 

Rowan, to his credit, does not sigh or make any noise of discontent. 

“I just want you home safe.” He ends the call, and Aelin feels like her heart is being ripped out of her chest--because wasn’t that the most  _ Rowan _ thing to say. Wanker. 

Part of her is weary of the cost of her job. Not the physical, but the emotional. She’d seen it all in this job, seen honest men lie, seen good women lie with the devil for a dime. She’s world-weary but that doesn’t mean the job is done. No, not even close. 

So she takes the rest of the day to read and reflect. Mostly she just replays Rowan’s deep voice, their entire conversation over and over again. 

*~*~* 

While Boxing Day might be a national holiday in Britain, and day she certainly wouldn’t be forced to work--it is not in Russia. So she faces the wind whipping off the River and the icy patches in Gorky Park, she walks into the Kremlin. 

The heat was on full tilt as she waltzes into her office--but it’s still cold. 

Dorian Havilliard--the man who was nearly her boss--though younger than her by 5 years--is sitting in her office chair. 

“Good morning, Dorian.” 

Dorian looks grumpy, and he’s toying with a file on her desk. “Aelin,” his lilting Russian always makes her a little hot under the collar, and those sapphire eyes look like they could see straight through her lies. 

“Morning,” He opens the file and slides her a picture. 

“What’s this?” She says and looks at it. It’s Fenrys on a street corner. 

“Tell me what our most prized hacker is doing on a street corner, selling his cock?” 

Aelin flushes, and though she knows exactly what Fenrys was doing on that street corner she wasn’t about to give him away. “I don’t keep track of Fenrys. You know his spiel about wild and beautiful things. It wouldn’t be that difficult for him to want to--” 

Dorian scoffs. “You and Fenrys are close.” 

Aelin hangs up her coat, “Is there a point to this?” 

There was that swagger. 

“Kill him, he was found with a burner phone and the number of the British Embassy in his pocket.” Every inch the Prince of Darkness, Dorian Havilliard. “I want his signet ring.” 

Aelin plays dumb, and submissive--two things that were the hardest part about this job. “It’ll be done within the fortnight.” 

“It will be done tonight.” Dorian deadpans, and he has that dead-eyed shark-like look in his face. 

“Yes, sir.” Aelin was getting sick and tired of rolling around and playing dead for Dorian. 

Dorian crooks a finger at her, “Wear things like this more often, dear.” Dorian fingers the hem of her pencil skirt which hit her knees, Aelin inhales through her nose.  _ Don’t punch him, don’t punch him, don’t punch him. _ She’s close enough that she can scent his winter and sea breeze smell--

Dorian backs off though, a flicker of emotion showing in his eyes, before it was locked away tightly again. Dorian was always hesitant to show emotion, even when they were children. 

“Whatever you’re thinking--” Dorian straightens his tie, and dismisses her, with a flick of his wrist. 

But she was thinking that six months ago Dorian had been someone she was scouting for possible recruitment. And then he’d met someone--and it was so obvious she’d ruined him. Maybe it had been a man, she had always thought she knew Dorian well enough to know what he liked. 

_ But she didn’t.  _

How much did you really know anyone when lying was your greatest worth? 

*~*~* 

Aelin Ashryver Galathynius had a grueling day at work. She didn’t get in the door to her manor home until almost seven. She’s about to make some tea and get her gun and a silencer when someone steps out of the shadows. 

Rowan Whitethorn’s handsome face is standing in her foyer. 

She lets the knife in her hand fly, knowing he’ll catch it. 

And he does, his hand is bloody, and he’s dripping blood onto her good carpets. 

“Fuck you for scaring me.” Aelin bites out. 

“Fuck you for going out to kill Fenrys.” Rowan replies easily. 

“You didn’t actually think I’d stoop that low?” Aelin’s every word suggests that she might kill her handler if Rowan didn’t leave her alone. 

“I wanted to deliver a message, from the Prime Minister…” 

Aelin nods, “Let’s hear it, Rowan,” every word threatens insolence and he’s still dripping blood on her carpet, the fact not bothering him in the least. 

“Dorian is not recruitable and we’ve lost an agent, the missile plans have gone missing.” 

“These things are connected I assume, and I further assume you’re not allowed to tell me anything?” 

Rowan seems to squirm under her gaze. “I’m recalling you to London,  _ formally _ .” 

Aelin could only nod, “So what are we going to do? Leave this house vacant and I’ll come live a nice white-picket-fence life with you?” She seemed resigned to her fate but she would have the whole truth from Rowan if it killed her. 

Rowan’s throat bobs.

“You know there are lives of British citizens depending on me, not least of all yours.” Aelin fumes, her temper finally making her want to commit the violence she’s so famous for. 

“Aelin,” Rowan begs her, his tone of voice soft, pleading, and desperate. 

“You’re dripping on my carpet, and you’re going to clean it up before we go.” Her mouth is set into a hard line. 

Rowan takes the knife from his hand. 

“I’m not going to kill Fenrys.” 

“Good.” 

“I’m going to kill Dorian.” 

Rowan nods, whatever had happened to Dorian months ago had truly warped him. 

“We need to do it tonight,” Aelin says, and in that moment she allows her heart to sink to her knees, for the bottom to drop out of her heart--for the childhood friend who’d been warped by cruelty and let it consume him. 

Rowan begins bandaging his hand. 

And fifteen minutes later Aelin is on her way to Dorian’s apartment--to kill the man she called a friend for so many years. 


	2. the way the moon shines on you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian has a frightening experience, Manon rues the day she met Aelin Galathynius. Explanations are rendered. Friendships mended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BIG TRIGGER WARNING! there's a situation in this chapter where Dorian is contemplating jumping off a roof--to end his life. he does not do any such thing but it's not a good situation. aelin shoots manon, and there is gratuitous gun violence. i promise i won't angst this hard next chapter

Dorian Havilliard was sitting on the roof of the high rise that he lived in, legs dangling off the edge. They were luxury apartments with more space than he needed. He’d had a lot to drink tonight, and it was the only thing that healed the pain in his heart--or that he could pretend healed his pain. 

Dorian had suffered much in recent weeks. Maybe that’s why he was being such an unrepentant ass at the office. Aelin was his friend he reminded himself, even if he knew what was at stake--her life and her freedom. She hadn’t told him what she was, and she hadn’t needed to. 

He wondered if Chaol was looking down at him now. Chaol, the man who’d taken a bullet for him and not batted an eyelash at his sacrifice. He misses Chaol, missed his laugh and his smile. 

It was hard not to cry about his losses, but Dorian just took another swig from the bottle. The liter bottle of vodka was half gone and the world was blurring the distance between life and death painfully. 

The door to the roof swings open with a bang, and a woman, more beautiful than he’d ever seen, maybe more beautiful than Aelin swept onto the roof. 

She gave him a smile. 

And unless he was very much mistaken, her name was Manon Blackbeak. 

“Don’t come any closer,” Dorian says haltingly, his words slurring precariously. 

Manon quirks a brow disbelievingly. “Are you going to jump?” 

“Maybe,” Dorian says quietly, and tear does roll down his cheek then. 

Manon sighs, “Well let’s get on with it.” 

Dorian turns to her, “What?” 

Manon makes an impatient gesture, “I have places to be. People to see, if you’re looking for an audience you’ve got one.” 

“I don’t--” Dorian says, sounding confused. But it’s just enough time for Manon to haul him back over the side. 

“You’re an idiot, and very drunk,” Manon says, and Dorian wonders what it’s like to be made of iron, to not break in the face of death and worse. 

“You’re very pretty,” Dorian smells like a distillery and he knows it. 

“I don’t take advantage of men who want to throw themselves off buildings,” Manon says in that swaggering American accent that maybe if he’d only had a quarter of the bottle would have lit a fire in his blood. 

Manon doesn’t give any indications why she’d care if the Director of the FSB died a painful death. She’d probably read his file. Everyone was always commenting on how he’d gone to shit--after Sorcha, after Aelin, after Maeve. 

And he’d known full well why Fenrys was on that street corner. Maybe Aelin wouldn’t end Fenrys, maybe she’d smuggle her friend out of the country. Maybe… maybe it would all work out and he would drag his ass through life. 

Never enjoying one thing,  _ ever again _ . 

Manon ruffles his hair and helps him stand. 

Why was she helping him, why did she fucking care whether he lived or died? 

The roof door slams open again, and it’s Aelin standing there, and unless he’s very mistaken… Rowan Whitethorn, the  _ fucking Assistant Director to MI6  _ is in the shadows next to her. 

Aelin brandishes a gun, and maybe Dorian is a fool for thinking it--but he doesn’t want Manon hurt. 

Manon puts herself in front of Dorian, “Hello,  _ bitch queen _ ,” Manon croons. 

Dorian is too drunk and confused to really take in the situation, the roof feels like it’s trying to send him ass over teakettle, but truly it’s just the spins. 

Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, his lying murderous friend takes aim, and fires. 

Manon makes him duck and Aelin is charging forward, firing round after round into Manon. 

Manon chokes on a laugh, “You’re his friend, you psychotic bitch.” 

But Aelin has to reload, and Rowan steps from the shadows, “Aelin, she’s wearing a vest.” Rowan’s voice is like caustic acid creeping over Dorian’s skin. 

While he might’ve suspected Aelin was a double agent… hearing it with his own ears made his heart sink. 

Dorian begins begging for his life, but Aelin is hauling Dorian to his feet, “You’re going to listen to me,  _ solnishko _ , you understand?” 

Dorian, to his credit, doesn’t look even a little dead-eyed, his eyes are shining with loss. 

“You’re coming back with me and Rowan, to MI6 and then you’re going to bleed secrets like little Miss America is bleeding all over your Armani shoes got it?” 

“Aelin--there’s something you need to know.” Dorian pleads. And he knows his infinite suffering might be good for something now. 

“Was my offer not generous enough for you?” Aelin deadpans

“Maeve--she and Fenrys--me, Chaol.” The words come out in a rush. “She used us all, used us in the worst way. She-- _ hurt us _ .” 

Realization dawns and it all makes sense. Aelin’s face falls, and with that fiery temper cast aside, it’s the real Dorian standing there, tears shining bright on his cheeks. Her friend through many dangers, the only one who’d ever bested her in sports, the man she’d wanted to name godfather to her and Rowan’s children. 

And then Aelin is crying, “Dorian, why didn’t you tell me?” 

Dorian gives a hapless shrug, he’d always imagined that he’d tell her over a nice dinner. That she’d drain her wine and ask him to get drunk with her, so they could both forget--and learn to forgive things that should never be forgiven. But that was far too romantic. Maybe he still loved Aelin, Manon is righting herself, howling in pain, but breathing and somewhat ok. 

“I hate to break up the little reunion--” Manon begins. 

Dorian holds up a hand because Aelin is looking at him like she understands. It’s not pity or shock on her face, but understanding and grace. She nods, “You should have told me--today…” 

“I know, I know.” Dorian’s vision swims, he’s so damned drunk, and maybe if he hadn’t been, he’d be able to think clearly about the enormity of what he just confessed. “I’m sorry, fireheart.” 

Rowan whispers something to Aelin, as if they’re deciding the fate of everyone in the room…Rowan rights himself, after leaning into Aelin’s ear, “What  _ exactly _ is an American CIA officer doing on a roof with this man?” Every syllable of Rowan’s words threatens violence. 

Manon straightens, rubs her ribs, but does not remove the vest that had saved her life mere moments ago. “I stole the missile plans.” 

Rowan crosses his arms across his broad chest. “Mmm… should’ve known the Americans would stick their nose where it didn’t belong.” 

Manon makes a doubtful noise, “Maybe if the Brits had stuck their nose in  _ when it mattered _ , I wouldn’t be standing on a roof chatting with you traitors.” 

Aelin snarls and advances on Manon, Rowan to his credit pulls her back, rubbing her shoulders, trying to soothe her. 

“I guess we have someone to pick up,” Aelin says rolling her shoulders out of Rowan’s soft gasp in an irritating way. 

Dorian quirks a brow, and Manon, though injured, takes most of Dorian’s weight, “He needs to sleep it off.” Manon groans, “God what an oaf.” She mutters. 

Aelin decides to shoo Rowan in to carry Dorian, the elevator from the bottom floor would be an insurmountable number of stairs. 

So the four of them walked out into the night, and into an uncertain future. Rowan, Aelin, and Manon knew one thing though,  _ no one _ would suffer the way Dorian had. Never again would Dorian or Fenrys be forced to serve a cruel woman such as Maeve. And they were going to get Fenrys  _ tonight _ , rescue him from whatever pleasure den he was surely trapped in, and then  _ burn Maeve to the ground _ . 

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me, i’d love to hear form you on social media [tumblr ](https://danaanruhn.tumblr.com) / [twitter](https://www.twitter.com/pincelings_) / [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/danaanruhn) / [tiktok](https://www.tiktok.com/@ruhns)


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